Wishing Only Wounds the Heart
by theflawintheplan
Summary: England's thoughts during "Rose and Crown." Companion piece to Megan Lo Saurus's awesome story, go read it! FrUK, please read and review if you will. Rated for language


A/N: Jesus Crist! First, I want to apologise to **Megan Lo Saurus** while simultaneously dedicating this to her. After all, this is not my idea it's hers and she graciously allowed me to write a companion piece to her amazing story, "Rose and Crown." **IT'S AWESOME, CHECK IT OUT BEFORE READING THIS SORRY EXCUSE FOR A FANFIC!** I started this almost two months ago now and am absolutely horrified that it's only just now uploaded. So another sorry to her and I really hope she enjoys it. On to the story!

The Rose and Crown was a typical English pub; dark, noisy, and foul-smelling. Basically, it was the second home England needed right now, but not for the sake of drinking just to have a drink—not this time. This time, he truly needed a drink. It wasn't too long before he was dead drunk with an admirable pile of glasses around him. Luckily, as a nation in a human body, he wouldn't suffer from alcohol poisoning, so he continued ordering his cheap drinks.

France…he was the reason for England's present behavior. Why…? Why did his rival have to be so damned perfect? Why couldn't he be ugly like the hunchback in that novel? Why couldn't he share his beauty with Arthur, the one who really needed it? Why couldn't that perverted whore see that the Briton was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him…? He laughed to himself, the sound garbled and warped by the poison soaking his tongue. Of course the Frenchman couldn't see it, and why would he? France may be a whore, but he only lusted after _beautiful_ things. Even a blind man could clearly see that that was not England.

It was really a shitty day, England decided.

'_Angleterre_?'

England turned and stared at France. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Of all the days for France to show his bearded face—the day England discovered his true feelings for the Frenchman? Of all the pubs to find—the one England was currently suffocating his desires in? It was not fair. After a moment had passed, he turned back to his (final?) drink and spoke.

'I didn't think you'd be here.' He carefully pronounced his words, hoping France wouldn't notice how drunk he was. He should have known better.

'I didn't think I'd be here either.' Sitting, the taller nation asked, 'How many have you had, _mon petit_?' Not nearly enough, England knew, but he waved a hand at the many empty glasses around him. He didn't care anymore about what _France_ thought. He had his reasons for drinking. Namely the man sitting across from him, wearing a pitying expression.

'You're going to regret it in the morning.' If only he knew….

England fingered the lip of his tumbler. 'Probably….' He'll definitely regret falling for this idiotic bastard for the rest of his life.

'Come on. I'm taking you home.'

England only slightly protested. He may hate the wanker, but he was also in love with him.

~?~?~?~?~?~?~?~?~

And of course, even though it was summer, the pair was met with steady drops of water falling from the sky. It didn't bother England, though—in fact, he welcomed the familiar rain. He upturned his face, allowing the moisture to seep into every pore, and for a moment it seemed to work. Vaguely aware of the Frenchman star

ing from the sidelines, he let himself relax a little.

He opened his eyes, 'France—' and stopped abruptly. He had let the rain "wash away" his feelings in vain. He turned back to the sky.

'Are you alright, _mon cher_?'

England blinked. Ah, that beautiful voice. Once again, he should have known better than to think he could escape from it. Nodding, he said, 'Yeah, fine. Let's go?'

France nodded his agreement and they continued.

~?~?~?~?~?~?~?~?~

He wasn't sure how, but soon enough he found France standing in his lounge and himself standing in the open doorway. Alarms sounded his head—didn't he feel his keys still his pocket?—but he let that thought go. It could always be addressed in the morning. Right now, there was another, more pressing issue:

'This is a shit day.' The statement came out harsher than he meant it, so he was relieved when Francis nodded. It encouraged him to repeat the affirmation, albeit softer.

'Absolutely shit….'

France looked horrified and England inwardly blanched. Perhaps the other had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps he only nodded to pacify the Brit. The Frenchman approached and took England's face in his hands.

'_Dieu_! I never thought…I….' The softness of the spoken words caused to England's sanity to snap only for a moment. He almost leaned into the touch, _almost_ pressed his lips to his rival's…. That is, until Francis started to rub a liquid from the Englishman's cheeks. England laughed shakily, lightly touching right below his eye.

'Fuck, I guess I'm more pissed than I thought.'

Pissed at these unrequited feelings.

Suddenly, England found himself in an embrace the Frenchman had started. He went rigid even as his body screamed at him to cling to the other person. Why would France want to hug him? After a few blissful moments, England was horrified to feel France pulling away. Thinking quickly, he brought his arms up to return the hug, letting the other nation know he did indeed want this. They stayed like that for what seemed like hours, could have stayed like that forever if an exploding firework hadn't caught England's attention.

A second exploded and he spoke.

'Make a wish,' he whispered, and as the words tumbled past his lips, he knew what he wished for. He wished for France to hold him tight and never let go again. He wished for France to kiss him passionately as his hands roamed the Englishman's body, searching for and removing any imperfection. He wished they could stay, caught in this beautiful moment forever (and God was it beautiful). But as the golden firework disappeared into a grotesque shower of smoke and former glory, Arthur knew it was too late for any of these wishes. Centuries of hatred are never easily forgotten or erased. So he pulled away from an unaware Francis. They gazed into each other's eyes, only slightly aware the other was gazing back and Arthur wished.

_I wish you loved me too._


End file.
